


Into the Light

by vysila



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does life hold for Illya after retirement?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrua7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 Easter Egg Exchange on the Man from UNCLE Writers' Survival School (mfuwss) community on Live Journal.
> 
> Mrua7 requested a gen story featuring Illya. A flower garden and a curious cat were the prompts.
> 
> This story, like this year's Easter Egg celebration, is dedicated to Sylvaine Grivel, who loved her little calico cat, her flower garden and Illya!
> 
> *Assume that all conversations in the story are conducted in French, except for those between Illya and Napoleon. The story takes place now, that is to say, Easter weekend 2015, although some inevitable liberties have been taken.

For the third time in an hour I patted my jacket pocket, unthinkingly reassuring myself that the precious envelope brimming with unimaginable possibilities still nestled there. Were Napoleon sitting beside me, he would be gleefully pointing out my new and obvious nervous tic, and relentlessly cross-examining me about it.

However, Napoleon had no clue about the envelope or the fact that I was in an Air France first class seat, bound for Paris in ridiculously expensive luxury. 

I refused a second round of champagne and made myself more comfortable in the generously upholstered seat. Sleeping on planes – or at least pretending to – has always been a specialty of mine and I wanted some time to catalog the memories.

# # # # #

The envelope had been delivered to my mailbox this morning, a rose-tinted swan amongst the ugly duckling bills and circulars that comprise my mail these days.

Closer examination suggested it had arrived in my mailbox via UNCLE HQ, for the envelope bore my name and a long defunct address written in a decidedly feminine hand. Despite my admiration for the United States Postal Service, I held no delusions they could have tracked me down from a fifty year old accommodation address. I blinked a little at the thought that UNCLE still monitored and processed all those old addresses.

How very curious. It has been a while since I'd had any kind of mystery to pique my interest. Even if I were confident that the envelope had been scanned, dusted, tested and otherwise rendered harmless – possibly even read, before it turned up in my mailbox.

The ink, probably from a fountain pen, was faded as if written a very long time ago, but the envelope wore a modern French postmark.

I turned the envelope over and over while I boiled water for tea, intrigued by its small inconsistencies. The only scent was that of slightly musty paper and the faintest hint of some kind of sachet. Lavender, perhaps? Or lilac? Napoleon would undoubtedly know.

The envelope boasted a wax seal of unfamiliar design, dry and brittle, attesting again to the age of the envelope. Technology can flawlessly simulate age these days, but the idea that someone would waste the effort on me was laughable. 

The embossed address on the flap above the seal proclaimed a French address, the name of a town I felt certain had once meant something to me.

My reflexes are no longer as reliable as they once were and so when my cell phone rang, astoundingly loud in the quiet apartment, I spilled pale tea on the envelope. 

"Good morning, partner." Napoleon's cheerful voice filled the room and I could not help but smile at the old, affectionate endearment. 

"Napoleon, your timing remains as appalling as ever." I scrubbed my shirt cuff across the envelope before the liquid could smudge the elegant handwriting.

"Well, I guess somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. What brought on the cranky pants attack on such a beautiful spring day?"

I glanced out the window and verified that the weather had not improved since my early morning trudge through the freezing rain. Ah, Napoleon, the eternal optimist.

"General principles. Wouldn’t want to get out of practice." I held the envelope up against the weak daylight streaming through the window but the heavy weave of the linen was impenetrable. "It's part of my Russian charm, remember?"

"Traditions are important," my former partner agreed, sounding distinctly amused.

"Mmmm." I chose a paring knife from the selection hanging on the magnetic rack and found myself holding my breath as I eased the thin blade under the envelope seal.

"I know the sound of distraction when I hear it, tovarisch. What are you up to?" 

"Just opening the mail."

"Any suspicious powders? Or explosive devices?" Napoleon sounded most inappropriately hopeful for such a venerable gentleman.

"Sadly, no. Not even a venomous spider. Merely correspondence." 

His sigh carried clearly across the connection. "I guess that means we really are retired, then?"

And I know mock regret when I hear it. I know he does not truly miss the intrigue, the stress, the adrenaline rush. What would our old bodies do with so much adrenaline anyway? Probably have heart attacks.

"Yes, I believe so." I sipped my tea and stared at the opened envelope with a sense of impatience that rarely visited me in these days of leisure. "I presume this is your pre-travel telephone call?"

"It is. We're all packed and ready to go. Are you sure you don't want to come with us? I just don't like to think of you all alone for two weeks."

Napoleon has been more insistent of late that I accompany him and his wife on their trips – but this wasn't just any vacation. If I didn't know better I would suspect solicitousness. "Napoleon, it's a family occasion."

" _You're_ family, Illya, you know that."

I smiled again, knowing he would hear it in my voice. Napoleon's friendship has been the bedrock of my life for nearly 60 years. "I know. But all the same, I'm not the proud grandfather, you are. Go spoil your new grandson."

His laugh sounded so young, so enthusiastic. As if the future held many wonderful things in store, even at his age. "If his mother and grandmothers even let me near him, you mean. The ground will be thick with adoring females."

"Somehow this does not surprise me, given that he is your grandson." 

Nor would it surprise me if the adoring new grandmother started a campaign to move to California, to be closer to the wondrous grandchild. I would not expect it to be such a hard sell to Napoleon, either. Other than memories, I was the only thing anchoring him to New York.

He laughed. "Well, he does have my eyes. And dimples."

"As I recall, it wasn't your eyes – or your dimples – that caused all the ladies to flutter around you back then."

He tutted and changed the subject. "Last chance, my friend. It's not too late to join us at the airport."

"Not this time. I shall enjoy meeting him via the 50,000 photographs and videos you will undoubtedly take of this marvel of a grandchild. And before you ask again, I will _not_ join facebook."

"All right, then. But you don't know what you're missing!" 

"Do you mean facebook or the marvelous grandchild?"

"Why, facebook of course!" Napoleon exclaimed. "Whatever else could I mean?" 

There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again it was in a soft, awed voice. "Illya, I never expected any of this, I really didn't." 

Neither of us had expected it, the reward of wife and family, but Napoleon has always had the most extraordinary luck.

"Give my regards to the young heir apparent."

"I'll do just that. And you take care, Illya. See you when we get back." A final laugh and the call disconnected.

Napoleon was off to visit the son and grandson he'd never expected to have and I had a mystery from my past to solve.

The envelope contained merely two thin sheets of matching rose-tinted notepaper, covered in the same elegant handwriting, and two creased, faded photographs. I carefully laid the photographs to one side, face down, resisting the temptation to examine them first. Instinctively I knew the letter was the key to unraveling this mystery. The doctors tell me my memory is less than perfect these days – too many knocks to the head back in the day - but even so I had no difficulty translating the letter.

_22 Mai 1986  
Cher Illya_

_I hope you will forgive my forwardness in writing to you and can only hope further that you are alive to read this letter. It is very possible that if you are alive, you do not recall me, someone who crossed your path for only a few days many years ago, given the life of adventure you have surely lived in the interim._  
_I am certain you are not a man who lives in the past, but perhaps you remember a warm June afternoon in 1964 and a desperate attempt to avoid some rather bad men who were hunting you. In your efforts to escape their attention you climbed my garden wall and hid among the shrubbery of my "jungle", hoping to remain hidden until dark, when you could effect an escape_  
.… 

Once I read the letter I indulged my first impulse and booked an overnight flight to Paris. Spontaneity has not featured in my life for quite a while and somewhere deep inside me, I felt a long-dormant renegade spirit stir.

# # # # #

As it turned out, I remembered that afternoon much more vividly than I do yesterday: how the heat haze shimmered over the cobbled streets of the village, the red tile and white stucco of house after house, even the small multi-colored cat watching me from her perch atop one of the ubiquitous garden walls.

It had been _hot,_ not just warm, and I had paused in the shade of the wall to catch my breath and get my bearings when the cat stretched out one paw to bat at my hair and meow. There was no one else in the street, just me and the friendly cat.

 _"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Minou."_ Thus appropriately addressed, the kitty allowed herself to be scratched behind the ears. To any potential observers, I was merely a somewhat foolish young man walking in the heat of the day, with the leisure and aimlessness to pet a cat.

In reality, my ears were tuned to the sound of pursuit and my eyes challenged the quiet street to surrender up a hiding place. I spared a moment to hope that Napoleon was faring better than I. We had split up hours ago, hoping that at least one of us could escape after the mission, but if the Thrushes on his tail were as persistent and thorough as the ones following me, that possibility had become vanishingly small.

I was still petting the small cat when I heard the distinctive squeal of poorly maintained brake pads. The sound had haunted me all day, the men in that Peugeot relentlessly identifying some hint of my passage no matter where I went. I'd found no tracers planted anywhere on me; either they had the advantage of some unknown device, or they simply were that good. 

Neither option boded well for my future, but I had to do something immediately, before the car turned down this narrow street. _"Pardon,"_ I begged of the cat, jumped and swung myself up to the top of the wall. There, sheltered by the thick branches of an overgrown vine, I quickly surveyed the garden and the cat surveyed me. 

Nothing moved in the vibrant garden, no sound save the rhythmic screech of brakes marred the heavy mid-day silence. My decision made, I dropped lightly to the ground and stealthily made my way up the terraced hill by way of a nearly invisible path winding through dense greenery. At first I felt the cat's eyes on me, but when I reached the high spot of the garden and turned to look back, she was once again curled up facing the street.

I blew a kiss to my feline assistant and withdrew further into the shrubbery. Unless the Thrushes grew desperate enough to make a house-to-house search, it seemed likely I could simply outwait them. For the first time in nearly 12 hours, I felt almost hopeful that I might come out of this alive. The urge to contact my partner flared like a collapsing ember and I reached into my pocket for my communicator. It wasn't there, or in any other pocket. I'd lost it at some point during the long flight to evade capture – when I rolled out of the car, or while running across a field, or splashing through a stream – no telling where or when.

Possibly just as well that I couldn't contact Napoleon directly anyway. An inconvenient bleat of the communicator often proved a liability. _Hang on, Napoleon,_ I wished. _May you too find a guardian cat to lead you to safety._

The squeal intensified; it seemed they were on the street just beyond the garden wall. The cat was now sitting up, ears flicking forward and back, doubtlessly annoyed by the painfully shrill sound. And then – it stopped. The squeal, the car. The cat's ears flattened. I heard a shout of triumph and knew that once again I'd been located.

There was only one option available: climb over the back wall into the next garden and then keep on running. I had just dropped to the ground in the second garden – a barren place, nothing like the verdant and restful oasis I'd abandoned – when I heard a sound my ears told me was splintering wood, and a single feminine scream, quickly silenced.

I didn't recall making any kind of conscious decision before I hoisted myself over the wall once again and plunged down the narrow path, across a cleared space with table and chairs, and up to a narrow iron-railed flagstone terrace. The garden doors stood open and inside I recognized one of the oversized Thrushes trying to subdue a slender woman. The second Thrush was nowhere to be seen.

The Thrush was well distracted by the woman's struggles and it was the work of only a moment to sneak in behind and dart him. The woman was carried to the floor by the weight of the Thrush and I extended a hand to her.

_"Mes excuses, mademoiselle. Êtes-vous blessée?"_

Dark eyes peered up at me from behind a tangle of russet curls. _"Non, monsieur. Merci."_ She sounded somewhat breathless after her exertions but not panicked as she accepted my hand and let me pull her to her feet. 

She didn't even blink when she glimpsed the gun in my right hand, but I wanted to reassure her anyway. Her diction confirmed her nationality so I continued in French. "It fires sleep-inducing darts, not bullets." 

She nodded, impressing me with a _sang-froid_ worthy of Napoleon himself.

"Where is the other man?"

She shook her head. "I saw only this one." Her voice was astonishingly steady considering the situation. She bit her lip and pointed to the door, now slightly askew on its hinges. "He broke down the door."

I covered the few steps to the door and cautiously peered around the jamb. The blue Peugeot was indeed idling just past the doorway, but there was no sign of the second occupant. 

"Do you have a safe place where you can go? A neighbor, perhaps? Or the nearest police station?"

She shrugged in a particularly Gallic manner, a gesture that conveyed ennui and disinterest in equal measure. "They are all at the celebration." At my blank look, she smiled. "There is a gypsy carnival across the river." The smile grew and transformed her face. "Besides, you will keep me safe."

Flattering, but not necessarily true. "I certainly hope so but—"

A most undignified scream split the air, followed by loud and extremely rude cursing. 

"The garden!" I rushed out the open garden door with the young woman on my heels. 

The second Thrush agent rolled on the ground near the garden wall, just about where I'd climbed over. One arm covered his eyes, another flailed wildly.

"Coco!" The woman started down the terrace steps, but I caught her by one arm. I'd learned quite young to respect the ferocity of dogs, and now it seemed a small multi-colored cat could teach me another lesson about the fierceness of pampered house cats.

Coco ignored her mistress's admonition as she danced around the man's head, scratching at will. From the gashes on his face, ears and arm, she'd gotten in several good swats already. She darted in toward his face again, easily avoiding the thrashing arm meant to fend her off, and bit him squarely on the nose. He screamed again.

The woman tried to wrench free. "Let me go! He'll hurt her!" 

I thought it unlikely. The cat clearly controlled the confrontation. Still, as much as I did not relish facing down a frenzied cat with homicidal tendencies, there was no question as to which one of us needed to secure the situation.

"I will take care of this," I said confidently, but without any real idea how to soothe the cat, subdue the Thrush and incur a minimum of damage to my own person. Using my gun seemed out of the question as I did not want to risk accidentally hitting the cat.

She rolled her eyes at me and shook her head. "Men!" Her second attempt to free herself was successful and so I could only trail her across the garden.

I covered the Thrush agent with my gun while the woman coaxed and persuaded her pet into her arms. The Thrush carefully peered out from behind his protective arm and glared balefully at the cat, now purring contentedly in her mistress's embrace, but all the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Of course, my gun pointed at his head might have had something to do with that.

_"Mademoiselle—"_

_"Madame,"_ she corrected and only then did I see the glint of gold on her left hand. I felt the slightest twitch of regret. She really was very pretty. And uncommonly sensible.

" _Pardon, madame._ Might you have some rope or wire that I could use to restrain these intruders?"

# # # # #

I managed to sleep on the plane after all, lulled to slumber by the comfort of nearly forgotten sweet memories, thus the 8:00 am arrival found me refreshed although somewhat rumpled – perma-rumpled is the phrase Napoleon likes to use. I breezed through customs even without the benefit of an UNCLE passport and handily located my hired driver by the simple expedient of reading the hand-lettered sign held high.

I was pleased to note that, despite my doctors' dire warning of diminished mental capacities, I was able to understand and make myself understood. And Napoleon wonders why I distrust doctors so?

The weather in Paris proved far more agreeable than New York's lingering winter; the temperature was mild, the sun unencumbered by clouds of any kind and the trees and gardens blooming with the white and yellow and green of early Spring. 

The constant ache of arthritis that plagues me these days eased just a bit as I settled myself square in the sunny patch of the limo's back seat. The drive to the small village I remembered would take several hours and I intended to take advantage of every moment of warmth and light. 

That unaccustomed sense of urgency returned with a vengeance, accompanied by something I finally identified as apprehension. It has never been my habit to fret over things beyond my control, nor to second-guess my decisions, but apparently life still had some lessons to impart to me. So I sat in my little patch of sunshine, watched the French countryside slip past, and tried to quell the disquiet battering against my ribs.

# # # # #

Madame Gabrielle DuBois had more than enough stout gardening wire to securely truss up both Thrush agents. While Gabi, as she insisted I call her, rendered first aid to the one agent, I begged use of her telephone to contact UNCLE's Paris headquarters. Insecure as it was, a telephone call was at least better than silence. I expected censure from the Section II head for losing my communicator and hoped for good news about Napoleon. The Paris office did not disappoint in either regard.

After enduring a telephonic tour of what sounded like the entire Paris office staff, each asking different questions, I finally heard a familiar voice on the line.

"Illya, my boy, where have you been?" I was pretty certain I had not imagined the concern fueling the question.

"Napoleon!"

At my relieved exclamation, Gabi turned toward me, eyebrows raised questioningly, bemusement quirking the corners of her mouth. The Thrush agent spat his opinion of my partner on her floor and she in turn slapped his face hard, heedless of reopening wounds she had just tended. 

My admiration for her grew. I almost envied her husband.

"… but how did they track you?" Napoleon wanted to know, as I spun my tale of the day's adventures. "I didn't have any problem getting away."

Of course he hadn't. It fit the pattern; somehow it was always I who was captured, tortured or otherwise inconvenienced. "When we were laying the explosives in the laboratory, do you remember that tube of metallic particles that tipped over and spilled on me? Apparently those particles are the active ingredient in Thrush's new homing pins. Some particles stuck to my clothes and they could easily follow me using the tracking device." At least they hadn't been better than I; that made me feel a little less incompetent. "Fortunately, we now have both the tracking device and a sample of the particles, so Section VIII should not only be able to figure out a way to counteract the Thrush signal but also develop our own miniaturized homing pin!"

"Good, good. Nice work. Mr. Waverly will be pleased. Oh, and we're sending two agents out to take those Thrushes off your hands. You can hitch a ride back to Paris with them. We don't have to return to New York until the weekend."

I hung up the phone in a marginally better mood. Three free days in Paris was an unanticipated and welcome bonus. Mr. Waverly must have indeed been pleased with the success of our mission.

"You have a friend named Napoléon?" Gabi's expression seemed to be caught somewhere between incredulity and delight.

"I do." But I didn't want to talk about Napoleon. Even in absentia he has a way of drawing attention to himself. "I also have good news for you. My company is sending several men to remove these prisoners and I will be leaving with them. In the meantime, I will attempt to fix that broken hinge on your door. By the time your husband gets home from work, there will remain no memory of this intrusion into your life."

"Oh." Napoleon often accused me of being insensitive to others' feelings, but even I detected the aura of disappointment. Gabi lowered her head and then looked up at me, a smile curving her generous lips. Coquettish was the only word that came to mind, and my body signaled its approval. "The evidence may be gone, but the memory will remain."

"She's got the hots for you, Russkie," sneered the Thrush. "Go on, UNCLE man. I like to watch."

This time, I had the honor of hitting him. Gabi smiled her appreciation and went to fetch wine to celebrate our victory.

# # # # #

_"Monsieur?"_

I drifted away from the heat of banked memories and opened my eyes. The driver had stopped at a fuel depot. "Would you like to refresh yourself while I refuel the auto?"

A thoughtful young man, but of course that's why I had paid such an exorbitant sum for his services. I nodded acceptance of his offer and he hurried to assist me from the limo. 

"I wager you would appreciate a short rest as well," I said. "Please take your time. There is no rush."

No rush, except for anticipation and apprehension beating hard syncopation in my chest. I was not expected, after all.

# # # # #

By the time Pierre and Jacques from the Paris office arrived, I knew a great deal about Gabi. I knew that her mother died in childbirth and she had been raised by her father. I knew that she had returned here to her childhood home from her life in Paris, tasked with settling the estate of her recently deceased father. I knew that she intended to make a new life for herself here in this familiar village, without the brutal husband who refused her a divorce. I knew that she adored the little cat, the one who had protected her so effectively and was now peacefully sleeping in my lap. I knew that the serene and restful garden here was the result of many years of loving labor shared between her father and herself. I knew that she was particularly fond of the locally grown and bottled Pinot Noir, which she served to me along with bread she had baked that morning and a very decent Brie.

I knew something else, too. That she desired me. And that I desired her.

So it was with no regret that I handed my Thrush prisoners over to Pierre and Jacques, informed them that I would return to Paris in three days, received a new communicator in turn, and with my arm around Gabi's waist, watched from the house's newly repaired front entrance as they departed in the blue Peugeot.

# # # # #

_…_  
 _Three days only we had together, three days of passion and kindness and laughter. I knew you would not, could not, love me, for you made it clear that your duty came first. But I was grateful and glad for what you did offer, something I had never had before, the truth of how it can be – should be – between man and woman. You freed my spirit with this truth and I still hold you within my heart with gratitude for that lesson._  
 _And now? The reason I write to you after such a lengthy silence?_  
 _It was not long after your departure that I realized our passion had resulted in a child. Our daughter was born 14 February 1965. Her name is Corinne. Enclosed you will find a photograph of her on her wedding day last year. Let me reassure you that she has married a fine young man, one who deserves her and will treat her with the same respect and tenderness you gave me._  
 _Yesterday, Corinne gave birth to a son. The second photograph is of Mathieu, your grandson. You are a grandfather, as I am a grandmother! I do not look or feel like a grandmother and somehow I am certain that you do not look or feel like a grandfather, either!_  
 _The years have been kind to me, as I have been blessed with a wonderful family and much love. I hope the years have been equally kind to you, mon cher, although I fear not. But should you ever feel that your battle against evil has been in vain and that you have senselessly foregone the joys of family – I wanted you to know that you do have one, and will always have a home within._  
 _Regards,_  
 _Gabrielle DuBois_

She must have had second thoughts about mailing the letter to me at that point, clinging to her secret for many more years. My heart raged that she had had no right to withhold this from me but my logical brain insisted that she had been wise to do so. What could I have done with such knowledge then, except complicate both our lives?

I had asked myself a question over and over again, on that long flight. Had I known the truth in 1965 – or even in 1986 – would I have chosen then to make this family my priority? The answer was a truth I knew in my bones. Even had my government permitted it, I had been too invested in UNCLE's goals to leave the organization. Could I have stayed with UNCLE and done justice by a wife and family? Certainly not in 1965. Napoleon managed it easily enough after 1985 when he married, but by then we were both out of the field and well entrenched in executive positions in New York. And I knew that Gabrielle would not have tolerated a part-time husband, a part-time father and grandfather who swooped in a few times a year.

It stung, too, more than a little, to think that perhaps she simply had not wanted me in her life at all, except as a memory.

But no matter how much I wanted to rail against her unilateral decision on behalf of all of us, she had indeed chosen wisely.

Whatever her reasons or mine, I now stood before the door of a half-remembered white-washed stucco house, hovering between a cowardly impulse to flee and a resolute desire to face the facts. It is a surprising truth that courage can be a fleeting thing in old age. 

In the narrow street, the hired driver waited attentively for my instruction. Before my resolution had a chance to fail, I took a deep breath, knocked on the door and listened to the faint reverberation inside, followed by unhurried footsteps across tiled floors.

The door opened, secure on its hinges, and I started to smile at the memory of fixing those hinges for Gabi – and then saw a face I recognized. I had noted the features in the photograph but in the flesh she could have been the reincarnation of my long-dead mother. Fine blonde hair, a gift from me, but the curls were strictly her mother's. Blue eyes that I knew could turn to grey instantly with anger, just as mine could.

My daughter. I had not doubted the truth of Gabrielle's revelation, not even for an instant, but the reality of the woman standing before me raised more commotion in my chest.

She gasped, hands rising to her mouth as if to hide her shock, but those familiar eyes spoke well enough. There was no doubt she recognized me somehow, perhaps as if looking into some odd kind of enchanted mirror.

"You!" she gasped and laid one trembling hand against my breast, unerringly finding the exact place where her mother's letter lay. "I did not dare hope…"

Her smile was like the dawn breaking over the ocean, sudden and complete and dazzling in its brilliance. "Come in, Papa." Her hand slid down my arm to clasp my hand, as if to lead me like a child into the house.

 _Papa._ A word I had never, ever thought would be used to address me. I pressed my free hand against my heart, where it felt as if a hard knot had suddenly unraveled. A knot I hadn't known existed until this very moment.

She glanced past me at the kind, patient driver. "You are welcome as well."

He beamed at us both, an unanticipated benevolence. The French can be so sentimental. "Thank you, madame, but M. Kuryakin has made generous provisions for me. Monsieur, what time should I call back this evening to take you to your hotel?"

"I will see to any arrangements my father needs."

My goodness. She was every bit as bossy as Napoleon. I almost laughed. It seems my lifelong fate to be at the mercy of people more naturally forceful than myself. 

And yet…. _my father._

How could this woman be so immediately accepting of someone she should, by all rights, despise for having abandoned both her and her mother. What lies – romantic, sentimental lies I am sure, but lies nonetheless – had her mother spun about me? 

I tightened my fingers around hers and summoned a smile for the driver. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness. If you would go to the hotel as arranged, I will contact you when I need you."

He smiled broadly again, tipped his hat, and climbed back into the limo. Once the vehicle had gone, the silence felt heavy.

"Please, come in," she invited again, a little more awkwardly this time. "You must be weary after your journey from… ?"

Ah yes, the old accommodation address. I recalled laying the innocuous business card on Gabi's vanity table just before I headed back to Paris. _If you should ever wish to contact me, a letter to this address will always find me._ I had kissed her goodbye then, fighting the yearning to crawl back into that warm, rumpled bed. Napoleon would have known how to take his leave with grace and humor; I had not. I took away with me a final memory of her clutching Coco to her face, those dark eyes peering at me through tangled curls. She hadn't cried then, nor had I, but I had felt a burning in my eyes as I walked to the train station.

"New York City. A long journey, yes."

She tugged me across the threshold and steered me to a massive upholstered chair. The room looked the same to my uncritical eye. The gleaming computer on the antique desk and large television tucked in the far corner of the salon were modern trespassers in this timeless setting.

"You… expected me?" Was this woman who identified herself as my daughter – my brain recognized the inevitable truth but the rest of my body struggled to catch up – the one who had mailed the letter? The room reeled about me and I quickly sat down. "I apologize for my lack of manners. My name is Illya Kuryakin and I—"

The woman sat down on the footstool and formed her mouth around the syllables of my name, as if tasting them. "I am Corinne, your daughter, and I have heard your name many times, from my mother. But you say it differently." 

Her mother. Gabrielle.

Not once did Corinne take her eyes from my face. The intensity of her stare was almost unnerving. It's been a long time since anyone assessed me in such a manner. "I cannot say I expected you, but I have had some time to prepare myself for this possibility."

I am not much of a conversationalist at the best of times, but right now I felt utterly bereft of words, especially in the face of Corinne's calm focus. "Forgive me, but this is all new to me. Yesterday I received a letter from your mother." My hand went to my breast pocket. "It seems a little superfluous to say I knew her once, long ago."

Her eyes searched mine, that same blatant directness in her gaze that Napoleon complains of in mine. "You never knew, did you? That there was a child."

How could she speak of herself with such distance? I shook my head. "I did not. Until yesterday, I had heard nothing of or from your mother since the last time I walked through that door."

And why was that, I asked myself? With a worldwide organization at my beck and call, I certainly could have kept tabs on her, although Waverly would have undoubtedly discovered the truth in that case.

An unexpected thought stopped me cold. I shivered with the impact of it. Waverly, who had always known everything. Had he in fact known this? Was this documented somewhere in his infamous private files?

For a dizzying, terrifying moment I could not breathe through a throat that closed tight with anger.

As if from far off I heard a frightened voice. "Papa. Are you all right? Let me get you some water."

Sanity reasserted itself. I tried to conjure a small reassuring smile, but from Corinne's expression I managed only a grimace. "An old man's momentary weakness, that is all."

It didn't matter now, whether Waverly had known about my indiscretion, whether he had known of this child, I reminded myself. Waverly was long dead and his private files still had never been found. Napoleon believed they had never existed to begin with, had simply been a rumor fostered by Waverly himself to keep his agents in line.

And what must Corinne be thinking? Feeling? That her father had not cared enough about her mother, her own self, to ever bother with a single glance into the past? Was she asking herself why her mother had never spoken of her to me? Was she wondering why she seemed so unimportant to us both?

Somehow I had to make things right – well, as right as might be possible at this late date – for this kind, gentle woman who unashamedly welcomed me. But first I had to speak to Gabrielle, to understand what had happened. And why.

I cleared my throat of rising emotions. "Would it be possible to speak to your mother?"

Corinne's face grew sad, even her shoulders drooped, but she gathered my traitorously trembling hands into hers and held them tightly. "I am so sorry to tell you this, but maman passed away several weeks ago."

Something seized up inside me. "She is—"

She glanced down at our knotted hands and shook her head. "You must feel you have come a long way for nothing."

I sat very still, trying to withstand the avalanche of emotions cascading through me. Understanding might come with time, but for now there could be only recognition of their existence. 

Despite my confusion, one instinct rose strong within me, that of protection.

"My dear child," I said and realized that as many times as I had said those words to some innocent, or to a young widow, this was the first time they were true, "It is I who am sorry for your loss." I reached out and wiped away a tear trickling down her cheek. "I wish I could have been here sooner, to help you carry the burden."

She looked up at me, through her disheveled curls, the same look her mother had given me the last time I'd seen her. I caught my breath; she might have inherited plenty of Russian genes but her personality was purely French. "But you are here now and that is what matters. I'm so glad you came."

"As am I." I could barely bring out words past the clot of emotion in my throat. I dropped my gaze down to contemplate my shoes, the old habit of hiding pain too deeply ingrained to ignore.

She stood up and I saw in it her way of stepping back from the emotional chasm waiting to swallow us both. "I have forgotten my manners, Papa. You must be tired and hungry. Let me show you the facilities and then we will have lunch."

# # # # #

Corinne did not permit me to assist her in the kitchen, so I wandered through the open doors out onto the flagstone terrace. The garden was more vibrant and lush than I remembered, ablaze with a riot of color from palest pink to vivid orange and deep purple. A large shrub with lilac blooms shaded one edge of the terrace, scenting the air with a familiar fragrance. I patted the letter still tucked away in my breast pocket. The small open seating area I remembered was still there, halfway up the hill, nestled in a bower of flowering vines and shaded by trees with white and pink blossoms.

The spot where Coco battled the Thrush agent now boasted a patch of green grass and a child's swing dangling from a tree branch.

To my amazement there was even another multi-colored cat taking advantage of the sunny garden wall, possibly guarding against unwelcome intruders. I strolled over and examined the swing, carefully not intruding on the cat's territory. Ever since meeting Coco, I've had a healthy respect for the protective instincts of cats.

I was in fact interested in what the child's swing represented. The rope was strong and unfrayed, the knot above secure and the swing itself looked of recent vintage. Similar to one of those molded plastic things Napoleon and Kathleen had for their son so many years ago. Not a relic from days long gone, then. Something for a current child – another generation of this unknown family? My heart thumped erratically in my chest.

My poor heart, it had undergone more than a few shocks in the last 24 hours. I wondered vaguely if it could possibly hold all these new feelings being born – and sometimes dashed – so quickly.

From the corner of my eye I watched as the cat stretched sleepily and fixed a curious gaze on me. She did not seem inclined toward hostility so I reached up to let her smell my hand. She seemed pleased with the courtesy and rubbed her whiskers against the back of my hand. I took that as permission to introduce myself.

_"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Minou. Mon nom est Illya. Quelle est la vôtre?"_

The cat yawned widely and gracefully leapt down to the ground. Ah, well, I wasn't exactly the charmer Napoleon has always been.

I heard a soft laugh from behind me. Corinne stood at the corner of the terrace, watching us. "She smells her lunch, Papa. This one likes her food. Don't you, Michie? See how round she is."

As Michie strolled past me, I realized she was considerably larger than Coco and I was devoutly grateful for her apparently placid nature.

"Does the house always come with a calico cat?" I asked, curious.

"My mother loved calico cats. All my life, she had one and loved each one so much. When one passed, she would mourn and swear there could never be another one – and then after a few months or a year – there was another little kitten. "

"I met Coco. She was very fierce!"

Corinne's laugh was a wondrous sound, another treasure for my poor overloaded heart. 

"I have heard that story! How Coco attacked the man who was hunting you and damaged him so badly. I never was sure whether to believe the story. Coco was the cat of my early childhood, she was always such a gentle lady."

"To you and your mother perhaps. I am glad you never saw the warrior side of Coco. It means that you had a safe and uneventful childhood."

What I did not say was that I was also very glad that she had never seen the warrior side of me. At least my absence had spared her that. Even if it meant she had never seen the other sides of me either. 

"Corinne," my mouth felt awkward shaping her name, wanting to say Gabrielle, but I knew soon enough it would feel familiar. If I allowed it. "I must ask. The swing… in the letter Gabi — your mother, that is, mentioned a grandson—"

"Ah, I wondered when she had written the letter." At my questioning expression, she shrugged, once again an utterly French gesture. "I never saw the letter, never knew of its existence. She placed it with her attorney, with instructions to post it upon her death. He told us about the letter after he mailed it. Mathieu, my son, he was with me when we met with the attorney. " 

This time it was she who tried to invoke a reassuring smile. "Until then, we had no idea you might still be alive. Maman led me to believe that you had died many years ago, before I was even born."

Her words struck me like a hail of bullets, painfully punching holes in the façade of fatherhood that I was struggling to accommodate. Lied to, again and again. And yet Corinne had the strength, the compassion, to simply accept and take me into her heart.

I felt humbled. And confused. My entire body ached with the pain she refused to acknowledge. I wanted to apologize, but for what? Her mother's deceptions? I had no right.

"I confess I did not expect to meet you here." I felt guilty as I brought out the words, like I was heaping insult upon injury. "I thought to see your mother here. I did not know…" From some depth I found the strength to finish my thought. "I did not know she had passed away. I simply thought she had finally decided to send me the letter. That she wanted to see me again."

Silence stretched out between us, an awkward knobby thing difficult to swallow down.

"The letter said you had married. I assumed you lived elsewhere with your own family."

There was no mistaking the pain in her eyes now. "I did. My husband died five years ago. A terrible automobile accident. His death devastated me. And when my mother fell ill – it was cancer, you see – two years later, I decided to retire early from my teaching and come back here to take care of her. My son and his family now live in the house where he grew up."

I remained silent but stepped closer, to reach up and lay a comforting hand on her arm. If only I could console her, absorb some of the tragedies that had beset her. A remarkable woman, my daughter, and I was sure it was the strength of the mother that lived in her.

Corinne stared at the swing for a long moment, then stirred herself. "To answer your question, yes, I have a granddaughter. Her name is Chloë and she will soon be three years old."

And once again I reeled, trying to assimilate the fact that I not only had a daughter and a grandson, but now a great-granddaughter as well? 

I had begun to accept that I had a daughter. I was willing to try to accept that I had a grown grandson as well. But a great-granddaughter who was still but a toddler? I knew I wasn't ready for so much. Not so soon.

Suddenly I smiled, thinking of telling this to Napoleon. Oh, his competitive nature would not like the fact that I was one generation up on him!

"You will meet them tomorrow, if you like. They are coming to celebrate Easter with me."

Tomorrow! I breathed through the panic that threatened to rise. Too soon, too soon! How could I face the judgment of the younger generation? This unknown grandson was sure to be hostile, to be protective of his widowed mother, as he should be. 

And… Easter? The date, the occasion, had not even registered with me in the face of all the other things demanding my attention.

"I did not mean to intrude on a family celebration," I managed to stutter out, hearing echoes of my protests to Napoleon just one day previous.

Corinne's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Papa, having you here is the very essence of Easter! It is no mistake that you came here at this time, to rejoin your family. And they won't bite you, I promise." 

She gestured behind her, to something I could not see past the greenery of the lilac bush. "Come, Papa. Lunch is ready. I thought we could eat out here on the terrace, if it suits you?"

Papa again. My brain circled the word, still trying to put it in proper context.

"It suits me very well. You don't have to go to all this trouble for me." But my stomach growled.

She grinned, that same impish grin her mother had displayed right before launching a deadly tickling attack. "Your stomach must be like Michie's, always ready to eat!" 

Corinne patted my stomach as I approached the table, the familiarity of her touch already a comfort. I had no defenses against this woman, none at all. "I know how to keep such stomachs happy!"

She most assuredly did, the lunch laid out on the white iron table a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. A simple chicken Niçoise salad with fresh crusty bread, a bowl of early, tiny strawberries with fresh cream, and a bottle of Petit Chablis. 

I thought that our conversation would be awkward, filled with uncomfortable silences and self-conscious remarks. Although I have many languages at my disposal, no one has ever accused me of gregariousness. Napoleon always heard what I said with my silences but few others did.

However, it seemed Corinne has much in common with my erstwhile partner. Over our leisurely lunch she shared with me tales of her childhood and memories of her mother. I saw through my daughter's eyes the family life, perhaps, I could have had; the woman I might have loved had there been liberty and time to do so. The possibility of being the man they both had deserved.

From Corinne's words I learned much, but I learned more from her body language and her expressions. I found in her an unlimited wellspring of kindness and compassion, as well as an easy and natural way of expressing confidences and drawing me into what started out as a one-sided conversation.

In turn, she seemed to learn much about me, especially from my silences.

"Maman believed that cats were fine judges of character," she said suddenly, _à propos_ of nothing, but nodding her head toward the rather substantial purring cat curled in my lap. "If a cat allows itself to be vulnerable in your presence, it means she knows you are a gentle and kind person and that she trusts you not to hurt her."

I scratched behind Michie's ears. She rewarded me by digging her claws into my very expensive wool trousers, and I thought of the many unkind and violent acts I had committed over the years. "Perhaps Michie merely senses that I am very old and incapable of hurting anything anymore."

She smiled at me, as if indulging an old man's whimsy. "I think you try very hard to pretend that you are not the man I know you to be. Maman spoke of you often, to anyone and everyone, but mostly to me. She wanted me to know my father. But for all my life I thought you were beyond my reach, that you had died a hero. All I had were a few photographs. And her stories."

Lies, fabulous lies, all of it, but I understood why. The why of it was my reason, too, for staying with UNCLE; to protect the innocence of youth and ensure the safety of their futures.

"I remember her taking photographs back then, of everything. Of Coco, of the flowers in her garden, the sky, everything. She had a real eye for beauty." I hadn't been comfortable when she aimed the camera in my direction, but she had vowed never to share them publicly and I had trusted her. Perhaps my self-esteem had needed to assume that she would cherish such reminders of our brief time together. Or perhaps my ego had wanted the reassurance of believing that she had loved me, no matter how much my mind proclaimed the impossibility. 

"All her life she saw beauty in everything and everyone. That is how she earned a living for us, modest as it was. She photographed for weddings, and babies and portraits, and also for scenery. Everywhere we went – to Pompeii or Matera or Athens, always she had the camera." She laughed. "There must be thousands of photographs of me, in many different settings.

"But this is not about me, it is about you. And like a cat who can judge a man's character, those photographs reveal yours. Would you like to see them?"

I didn't have to answer, Corinne read the answer in my eyes, in my face. "She kept them in her treasure chest with her jewelry and some mementos of her own mother. One evening, the night before my wedding, I opened her bedroom door to wish her goodnight and found her looking at them. Such a beautiful smile she wore. She never said the words, but I believe… she loved you."

I suspect what Gabi loved were her memories, and a carefully nurtured fantasy about what might have been, but looking into those blue eyes that wanted so much to believe in that love, the words refused to budge out of my mouth, and I was content they should remain unspoken.

But I couldn't utter the other words, the ones that would have reassured her, either. We locked gazes and I am certain she read the truth in mine, that love had been merely an elusive chimera between her mother and myself. There hadn't been enough time for love, only affection that could have turned into something else, eventually. But that did not devalue what we had shared in the least and I hope she read that in my face as well.

From her pocket Corinne withdrew a handful of old photographs, faded color images with slightly foxed edges, made with the then-new color technology of a bulky Polaroid Land Camera. I scooted my chair closer to hers and together we looked at the images. "Maman always swore there was another picture, one of the two of you, but I never saw it. I have always wished to have one of the two of you together. All my friends had a picture like that, on a sideboard or mantel in their home, and I desperately wanted one as well. In a pretty silver frame, so everyone could admire how handsome a couple my parents had been. Instead, they are all of you, by yourself."

The first one she held out showed me slouched in a chair on this very terrace, wearing a tattersall shirt and old straw hat that Gabi had rummaged out of her father's closet. "As I recall, we'd enjoyed a fair amount of wine that afternoon, in between weeding the vegetable patch." 

I cast an eye over the garden; it seemed more developed, more floral than I recalled. I wondered if the vegetable patch still existed up there at the very back of the garden.

"How old were you? Maman never was sure. She thought perhaps she had robbed the cradle, you looked so young. And so thin! She wanted to fatten you up!"

"The years took care of fattening me up, I fear." I patted my stomach. "I was 31 that summer. I turned 32 in September."

I surprised myself by volunteering more than was strictly necessary, and watched her mentally file that information. Somewhere deep inside I knew that eventually I would give more away. How could I resist my own child, after all? 

"Ah! Then you were nearly of an age! She was 29. Your eyes are so kind here."

I nudged her with my shoulder, as easy a gesture as I would have shared with Napoleon. "So swimming with wine, you mean. The day was very hot and I was very sleepy."

We sorted through the scant dozen photos, memory loosening my tongue so I could bring those days to life for Corinne, while she in turn shared what Gabi had told her. It was unnerving for me to look at so many photos of myself, especially such old ones. Another time, almost somebody else's life. But Corinne deserved at least a few glimpses of her parents together.

"This is my favorite one," Corinne declared. I didn't remember Gabi taking this one, but that was no surprise. She had captured me napping in her bed, arms flung above my head, completely surrendered to sleep. "You are so completely relaxed. None of the personal defenses that I see in the other pictures. Your eyes, even now, are guarded, as if you're afraid to let anyone see inside your soul. Kind, but still guarded." 

I wondered if Gabi had told her that my gun had been under that pillow, partially accounting for my sense of security. No, probably not.

She covered my hand with her smaller one. "Papa, I know your soul is beautiful. A single afternoon, my mother and a handful of old photographs have taught me this. Do not be afraid to share it with me."

Such a wise woman. Probably much wiser than I, but… "A lifetime of caution is not easily overturned. Trust was not something I could afford in my world."

She looked down at the photograph. "I think I understand. There is a scar there," she pointed at a round pucker mark near my left shoulder and then at a long angry streak across my abdomen, "and there." Even that early in my career I carried the badges of an experienced, if unlucky, field agent. 

There was certainly no need for Corinne to know the details of the experiences that had shaped my caution. She was not a child of the Great Patriotic War, she had not seen devastation or starvation or torture like I had. She had not battled toe to toe on the front lines of a war against a power bent on world domination. She had not been sworn to secrecy on matters that affected the safety and future of an entire planet.

That she had grown up innocent of such knowledge pleased me greatly. To know this meant that my life's work had been worth all my personal sacrifices.

"Remember what I said about the cat who allows itself to be vulnerable?" She pointed at the picture. "How long has it been since you trusted someone enough to be that vulnerable?"

Aside from the family of my youth, no one except Napoleon, always Napoleon, who knew nearly all my secrets. Except the one with hopeful blue eyes who was sitting beside me.

All I could do was shake my head and smile regretfully. She deserved better, this child of mine. "I have no defenses against you, my daughter." There, I said it, brought the incomprehensible words out and made them real, so it must be true. She is my daughter. "If there are any defenses left, they are only out of habit."

Her eyes grew sad. Her face, her eyes, her soul if you will, were open to all. A clear conscience and a giving heart that had nothing to hide. "I will teach you not to need those old habits, then," she declared confidently. "I am a very good teacher." 

Her smile transformed her face again, from one of regret to something I might almost call mischievous. "And if I don't, Chloë will."

# # # # #

Later, in the cooler shade of approaching dusk, we walked through the garden. Still talking. I am quite certain the last time I said so many words in such a short time, I had been talking to some evil megalomaniac, trying to convince him not to kill Napoleon and myself.

"I'm sorry to keep you away from your planned evening," I said, as she tucked her arm in mine and we stepped down into the garden. Michie ambled companionably behind us, the better to chase fireflies, no doubt.

Once again, it had never even occurred to me that, as a Catholic, she had wanted to attend the Easter Vigil tonight. "I could call my driver and return to the hotel. You would only be a few minutes behind your friend." A neighbor had stopped in to see if Corinne wanted to accompany her.

As I sat in the big chair in the salon, I could not ignore the delight in Corinne's voice as she excused herself. "My father has come for a visit. I will not be joining you for the Vigil after all." There had been no mistaking the astonishment in the other woman's voice, either, and I knew that by morning at the latest the news would be all over town that Corinne's heretofore supposedly deceased father had made a miraculous appearance. 

Well, I supposed it _was_ the season for miracles.

"No matter," Corinne assured me. "I've not attended for several years. Maman was too weak to go and I did not like to leave her alone all night. Oh, look at the camellia! It has finally bloomed! It usually blooms much earlier than this. This was always one of mama's favorite flowers. She planted it when I was born. When it bloomed we always knew spring was well on its way. Perhaps it waited this year, to welcome you home." 

I admired the exquisite pale pink flowers and glossy leaves of the large shrub but refused to be distracted from making my point. "Nevertheless, I don't want you to have to change anything because of me."

She leaned in close against me, her head against my shoulder. "Oh, Papa, _everything_ has changed because of you and I could not be happier. If I have tired you out and you truly want to return to your hotel, then there is no need to disturb your driver. I will take you there. But if you are only being polite, then I would be grateful for your company tonight."

Perhaps she had heard a touch of reluctance in my offer, because I realized I had no desire to leave this familiar and welcoming home or its generous owner. "I'm used to very late nights and need very little sleep," I warned.

"Good! Then we shall have our own Vigil tonight, to celebrate your return from the darkness of isolation into the light of your family!"

I'd learned a long time that a determined woman would always have her way and so I simply turned my head slightly to smile at her. "I understand a fire is an essential part of a Vigil."

"It is," she said, surprise clear in her tone. "I did not think you would know that."

I chuckled. "I know many unexpected things." Napoleon is a long-lapsed Catholic but once, for an assignment, we had to go undercover at a Vigil. One of the longest nights of my life, as I recall, but somehow I thought that this Vigil would be far more pleasant. "Is that a firepit I see at the landing, with the table and chairs? I'm very good at building fires."

A gentle smile curved her lips. "And so we will have a true Vigil, then, you and I."

As we continued up the path, with Corinne occasionally scolding me for trampling the small white primroses or blue forget-me-nots lining the path, I kept my eye out for winter deadfall in this well-tended garden, to use for kindling. And like her mother and grandfather before her, I could feel that this garden was a labor of love for Corinne. 

I crouched down, although not without effort, and dug my fingers into the ground near a flowering shrub with brilliant orange flowers. In the dirt crumbling between my fingers I could feel the history of this family – _my_ family! – who breathed and worked and loved, and in the process transformed an ordinary house and a small plot of land into something remarkable.

"We Russians are peasants," I said softly. "The land, and growing things, that is in our soul." I looked up at Corinne. "This is not Russian soil, but it is my family's soil. I do not know your flowers, we grew potatoes and cabbages mostly. But if you would allow it, I would like to stay a little while and help you grow your garden."

"Oh, Papa." She knelt down next to me. "Nothing could please me more. We will grow our garden together and some day perhaps Chloë will say to her own grandchildren, look at this beautiful flower. I helped my great-grandfather plant it when I was a little girl."

I remembered a night nearly 80 years ago, in another century, when as a small child my father had lifted me up to his shoulders and I had reached out for the stars. That same sense of wonder uncurled in me again, something I had lost since retirement, the sense of being a part of something immense and marvelous that would flourish far beyond an ordinary human lifespan.

# # # # #

The small fire crackled pleasantly, living up to my boast that I was very good at building fires. I drew my chair closer to the fire, for the soothing heat. The warm spring day had cooled considerably with the setting sun and my joints failed to appreciate the damp night air.

Corinne settled into her own chair and handed me one of the blankets she had fetched from the house. A worried crease appeared between her brows. "This is a foolish notion, staying out here all night," she fussed. "You will catch a chill."

My legs were warm enough this close to the fire, so I settled the blanket around my shoulders instead. "It was your idea," I teased, amazed that I felt so comfortable and free to do so already. Her quiet, good humored acceptance of our relationship had set the tone for our interactions.

"I knew you would say something like that!" She handed me a thermos. "I made more coffee, too."

I let her see the twinkle in my eye before gratefully sipping the hot espresso fortified with something. Armagnac, perhaps. "It's been a very long time indeed since a beautiful woman wanted to keep me up all night."

My hope in such a foolish comment had been to inspire her glorious laugh, and I was not disappointed. That silvery laugh, so very like her mother's. Gabi and I had laughed so much in those few days we had, laughed in and out of bed. Napoleon always had said to me, _when you find the woman you can laugh with in bed, you've found the right woman_. He'd found his and now, I wondered, had I found – and lost – mine, all unknowing?

"Oh, and I left a message at the hotel. Your driver will bring your luggage here in the morning and then return to Paris. I hope he gets home in time to celebrate with his family." 

"I do, too. I will give him something extra before he leaves here. He was very kind and patient with me."

"What do you think of, Papa?" Corinne asked quietly after I fell silent.

"I am thinking that you have shared much with me – your childhood memories, stories of your mother, even all the cats who came between Coco and Michie. I have seen your husband Alain through your eyes. And I have given you nothing in return."

She shook her head. "No, Papa. You have given me _everything_ , because you are here. To disarrange an orderly life because of a single letter, especially at your age, this is priceless to me. You came and you are willing to stay, to learn more about this family. It must be so strange, so hard for you. But I have a father now, something I never expected! Mathieu, who misses his father so much, will be glad of a grandfather's wisdom. And little Chloë – ah, think of the boundless spoiling that will come her way from her arrière grand-père!"

I laughed, not because what she said delighted me, although it did, but because I had been thinking in more practical terms. But her words raised another concern for me.

"You seem to think that Mathieu and his wife will accept me as readily as you have." I knew well the protective and suspicious nature of men. I thought it unlikely that Corinne's son – I couldn't think of him as my grandson yet – would be quite so eager to welcome me into the family.

"It will be a greater shock for them, I think," she conceded. "I would not expect Mathieu, or especially Catherine, to accept as easily. They are not quite the romantic I am! But I know my son and his wife, and I am certain as they come to know you, they will come to love you. And Chloë, she is a child. She loves everyone and everything. All is joy for her. You need only exist for her to adore you."

Part of me wished to have more time alone with Corinne, to grow more comfortable with her, with so many new emotions, and with the role I would be expected to play in this family. But as I have learned over the years, sometimes the best way is simply to turn into the fear and do the best one can. 

Things are what they are and Mathieu and his family would be arriving in a few short hours. They would certainly not be expecting a hypothetical grandfather to pop up in their Easter baskets, but we would survive the encounter. And, it occurred to me, with the family gathered thusly, I could perhaps tell some of the stories of my life, as a form of introduction.

In the meantime, however, I had one story that was just for Corinne. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the precious envelope, now more creased and wrinkled.

"You said you didn't even know about this. I thought perhaps you might like to read it."

She stared at the envelope I held out to her. "Maman's letter?" After a long moment she accepted it. "Yes, I recognize her handwriting. "

She unfolded it and began to read. She'd gotten no further than the date, before she exclaimed, "Oh, she wrote it the day she knew she had become a grandmother!"

I fumbled around for the handkerchief I knew she would be needing in just a moment. If I had needed one the first time I read Gabi's letter, most assuredly Corinne would.

"She didn't know if you were alive… oh, now I understand even more why she led me to believe that you were dead. … the life of adventure?" She looked up at me. "She means danger, doesn't she? Like the kind of danger that brought you together."

I nodded, handing over the handkerchief so she could mop at eyes already brimming with tears, before bending her head again to read more.

I looked into the fire, reminding myself that it was safe to do so, that I would not have night-blindness against dangers lurking in the darkness if I did so.

"Oh!" Another gasp drew my attention. "Three days! Only three days! Oh! Somehow I thought it was much longer. Three months? Half a year? Maman always said your time together had been short, but—! Three days!"

Something else Gabi had been vague about, then. Cynically, I thought we could have used a liar of her caliber in UNCLE's ranks. It is one thing to lie to an enemy, but much more difficult to lie convincingly and so comprehensively to a loved one. Even if it is for her own protection.

"Well, it was a _very_ full three days."

"The truth of how it should be between man and woman. Oh!"

Again she raised her shining eyes to me, not even thinking about the tears rolling down her cheeks. I think, were it possible for Corinne to think even more highly of me than she already did, that Gabi's hopelessly romantic statement doomed me to that elevated status for eternity.

I shrugged, but without the charm or grace of Corinne's Gallic gesture.

She finished reading the letter in silence, let it fall into her lap and tipped her head back to look up at the star-studded sky. 

"The pictures? She said she sent two photos?"

I handed them over. Both tinged with age but in better condition than the Polaroid ones we'd gone through earlier. Gabi had obviously bought a better quality camera in the intervening years.

"I was so young! And look at Alain, stuffed into that formal suit." She smiled and traced a finger over the beloved face. "I only got him into a suit one other time, for Mathieu's baptism. He preferred his coveralls. I even buried him in his coveralls. He would have hated wearing a suit for all eternity."

"You were a beautiful bride. That picture makes me ache that I wasn't there to walk you down the aisle."

She moved her chair next to mine. "Papa, I had the same ache in my heart that day as well. Today, that ache is gone. Cured! And there, look. My baby, newly born. He takes after Alain, not at all silly and romantic like his mother. Or perhaps… " she tossed a thoughtful, sideways glance at me, "… perhaps he takes after his grandfather, who is also a serious man. But he has dark hair and eyes, like Alain."

"Like Gabrielle, too."

"Yes. She sounds so happy in the letter, so grateful for her wonderful life. And we did have a wonderful life, maman and I. We did. She loved me very much and I loved her. She was my best friend growing up. But I didn't know she held such a secret, like an earthquake threatening to undermine what we had."

Such a fanciful turn. It made me uncomfortable that somehow, by my coming here, I had tarnished Corinne's memories of her mother. "But it didn't undermine what you had. You grew up safe and secure, happy and loved. I like to think that I, because of my work, contributed to the first two and I know your mother was responsible for the rest."

"Your work… the danger that gave you those scars. And made you so… cautious and guarded?"

"Those scars, and many more over the years. It was not an easy life, not safe work, but it was important work. When I first read the letter I was angry, so very angry, that she had kept you from me. But in the end, I think perhaps she made a wise choice. Maybe the only choice that could mean a secure and happy life for the two of you."

I reached in my pocket and withdrew one last item and handed it to Corinne. She stared at it in disbelief. "Maman's missing photograph!"

She looked up at me, prepared to be cross, but stopped abruptly. Her face eased into an expression of surpassing gentleness, of utter comprehension.

I grew uncomfortable under that knowing gaze, feeling like I'd betrayed a secret while under the influence of a veridical.

"You took it, didn't you? All those years ago."

I had. When I laid the card down on Gabi's vanity table, I saw the small stack of photos. So many of me but only one of her. Surely, I had thought, she would not begrudge me one out of many. Not this one, not after I'd spent so long engineering a ridiculous Rube Goldberg device to function as a remote control so she could get both of us in the frame at the same time.

Something tangible to remember Gabrielle and our wonderful days together. And so it had found its way into my pocket. And later, into the safe deposit box where I kept my few other treasures, the ones that were too precious to leave where someone else might find them.

"Oh, Papa." That was all she said, but again she leaned against my shoulder and we held hands as we drifted off to sleep in front of our Vigil fire.

# # # # #

"Pépère?"

Between my arthritis and slowed reflexes, I don't exactly leap up, gun in hand, when startled awake, but I certainly did jerk uncomfortably. 

"Wha—?" 

I was still in the plastic lounge chair where I'd fallen asleep in the pre-dawn hours, but someone had thoughtfully covered me up with more blankets and added a pillow for my head. The fire in front of my chair had died out, probably hours ago. 

The sun was barely over the horizon, which told me that at this latitude, it was somewhere between 7:30 and 8:00. Above in the white blossomed tree, birds were singing to each other instead of searching for worms. Or perhaps warning each other, for out of the corner of my eye I saw Michie trying to slink inconspicuously toward the tree.

An impatient little rustle drew my attention to the right.

She stood perhaps three feet in height, as delicately boned as the birds singing in the trees. Curly hair the color of Cumberland honey, eyes as blue as… mine. Her dress was white, with a pattern of flowers. She wore a wide brimmed, bright pink straw hat and carried a bright pink basket like a handbag.

"Chloë?" I asked cautiously, utterly charmed by the vexed expression on her heart-shaped face. "Pépère!" she repeated, with a little exasperated sigh. Entirely French. Then she pointed to my lap and I realized what she wanted. "Un oeuf!"

I handed the gaily decorated chocolate egg to her and received a curtsey in return. She started to run off laughing, presumably in search of more chocolate eggs, but a firm, masculine voice stopped her.

"Chloë! N'oublie pas les fleurs pour ton grand-père."

A shadow fell across me as the little one turned back to me, reached into her pink basket and withdrew a bouquet of somewhat bedraggled yellow daffodils to present to me.

"Pour vous, Pépère." She curtsied again and looked up at her father for permission to scamper off. 

I struggled to rise, more clumsy than I wanted to be upon this first introduction to grandson and great-granddaughter, but, well, things are what they are.

Once on my feet, I managed to sketch a half bow to the young lady. "Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle." I've offered far less courtesy to Heads of State. Chloë dimpled her pleasure at my old-fashioned manners and then turned and ran.

And while my first inclination was also to turn and run, instead I chose to greet my grandson.

# # # # #

My cell phone rang just as I was reaching the most exciting part of Chapter 1 of the Adventures of Napoléon and Illya, Secret Agentes Extraordinaire.

"And do you know what my very silly partner wanted me to do?" Chloë's eyes grew round and she paused with a long stalk of asparagus dangling from her Chloë-sized fork, and shook her head.

"He wanted me to land that helicopter on the roof of the truck! While it was driving down the road!"

Mathieu hid his grin behind his hand as he listened to my ridiculous tale. He probably thought it was completely made up, a figment of an old man's imagination meant only to entertain. That was certainly enough for now. One day I may enlighten him, if he wants to hear it.

"Did you?" gasped Catherine. "Is that even possible?"

It was at this point that my phone chimed. I glanced down and saw Napoleon's caller ID.

"A thousand pardons for the interruption. May I be excused, Corinne? I must take this call. And then I will finish the story."

Her smile, even more radiant now, forgave me everything, up to and including interrupting her Easter family feast.

I stepped onto the terrace, into the warmth of undiluted sunshine served up with an extra helping of scent from the lilac bushes.

"Napoleon!" I did a quick time differential calculation. "You're up early, my friend."

"Happy Easter, tovarisch. How are you and New York holding up under that surprise blizzard?"

I turned my face upward to feel the caress of sunlight on my skin. "I'm holding up quite well, actually. Happy Easter to you as well. How's San Francisco?"

"Foggy at the moment. They're calling for rain soon, so keep your fingers crossed. This drought is terrible."

"And how is the marvel of a grandson?"

"Marvelous. Amazing. Wonderful. Did you get the pictures I texted to you? Didn't I tell you, he's got my dimples."

I thought of a little honey-haired girl who had a set of her own dimples. "Dimples are one thing, old friend. What about that chin, though? He is certainly your grandson!"

"No cracks about the Solo chin, IK. That's a very fine chin indeed." 

I had to smile, imagining him waggling an admonishing finger at me. I was too mellow, too full of Corinne's delicious rack of lamb and several glasses of a very fine Côte de Nuits Pinot Noir to tease him anyway.

"A very fine chin indeed, for a very fine young man. How is the new daddy holding up?" I remembered Napoleon when Nathan was born, how giddy and disbelieving of his good fortune he had been, and so terrified to pick up that tiny, squirming bundle. And what had struck me oddest of all was how overwhelmed Napoleon had been at the prospect of responsibility for one small baby when he sat in the command chair of UNCLE HQ, responsible for the fate of entire nations and millions of people. 

Now I was beginning to understand the difference.

"Nathan's great. He's handling it much better than I did. He's going to be a wonderful dad."

"Just like his own father. And Kathleen? Do you think she will ever get her fill of that grandchild?"

"Ah, no. And actually, I wanted to let you know we're probably going to stay longer than the two weeks we'd planned on."

"Somehow I am not surprised." 

"Well, listen, gotta go. We're heading off to Mass. You know, I thought being retired meant I didn't have to wear a suit anymore. And here I am now, with more suits than ever!"

I looked down at my casual slacks with the grass-stained knees and the soft polo shirt. "Ah, but Kathleen knows you look good in those suits. That is why she always finds excuses to put you in one."

_And you know it, too, you old reprobate. Which is why you never complain about them, except to me._

"Napoleon, take care, and keep those pictures coming. And give me a call when you're heading back to New York."

"I will. You take care, too, my friend. Try not to miss me too much!"

I disconnected the phone and untangled Michie from around my ankles. I had an audience waiting for me to finish my story.

# # # # #


End file.
